


Memory Of Grace

by Worlds_Collided



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/969866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worlds_Collided/pseuds/Worlds_Collided
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mark that was long gone, faded from too many deaths and resurrections, but the memory remained embedded within the Angel’s grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory Of Grace

> [journeyintohiddlestiel](http://journeyintohiddlestiel.tumblr.com/):
> 
> If we’re talking prompts… Dean remembering Cas saving him from Hell :’)  
>   
>  Just picture it… Dean’s dreaming… or… not. He could have taken Castiel’s grace and become an angel and inherited Cas’ memories? And suddenly he remembers everything.  
>   
>  The blinding white light, the screams of demons in Hell as they realise just who the intruder is, a heated palm shooting electricity through Dean’s left shoulder… just ;_;

Light without darkness is blinding. Darkness without light is an abyss.  
  
 _Light without darkness is blinding_. For Dean that described, with disturbing precision, what looking into an angel’s grace felt like. Bright, it was similar to staring into the sun for extended periods of time even though he only caught a glimpse before his eyes shut on the instinct to not burn his retinas out, and warm, when it entered his body - completely against _his_ will - it felt like his blood was boiling under his skin.  
  
It had been a hard battle that eventually ended in Castiel’s grace being released into the room. Instead of going back to the angel-turned-man, as everyone expected, the light that was Castiel’s grace sought him out, a power that poured itself into his body, filling him completely in an experience that lasted, roughly, three or four seconds, but felt like it went on for weeks on end.  
  
When the light died out at last and the urge to scratch his own skin off finally subsided, Dean was lost. Completely. Both metaphorically and literally.  
  
He knew he was laying in the grass now, based on the feeling under his fingertips and the crisp, clean smell in the air, but beyond the images, beyond the _memory_ that danced across his eyelids and played, on repeat, in his brain, he didn’t know. He couldn’t will himself to open his eyes, content to let the wave of calm flood over him as everything took a familiar turn, from a different angle.  
  
  
Lakes of fire, earsplitting screams, tortured souls _begging_ for help, the smell of burning flesh, the weight of the blade in his hand, and the feeling of flesh rending under the sharp edge are the first things he remembers. His body - or was it his soul? - was numb to the immense _hatred_ sitting in the pit of his stomach for his own actions, even as he tore into another helpless soul on the rack, his face blank despite the rush of blood it brought about.  
  
He could still hear Alistair’s voice bouncing around in his head, telling him to turn his wrist just so and how much pressure to apply, the unsettling feeling of the demon’s hand on the small of his back and his chin resting on his shoulder. He could practically _see_ the eery grin spread across his features as he cooed happily into his ear.  
  
And then it was gone. The hand that made his skin crawl had vanished, the sickening voice that made him want to vomit even though his stomach was empty - he hadn’t needed to eat in Hell - suddenly quiet, the weight on his shoulder missing. That’s when he saw them.  
  
Feathers, charcoal black and soft, but still strangely _pure_ , completely untouched by the taint of Hell. His head tilted back, eyes straining to see past the pain and suffering, to find the source of the feathers that he wanted to collect and gather together in an effort to keep them safe from the darkness.  
  
What he found was both fascinating and frightening at the same time, several beings shaped like people, souls that weren’t tied in chains and shackled to hard tables, emanating a bright light and warmth, each one having wide, outstretched wings covering the span of several feet. The feathers that were plucked from them by the grasping demons and clingy souls changed into various shades of color depending on which they were torn from.  
  
The feathers fell around him, the beings barreled towards him, every demon they touched burst into light and _burned_ away and the tortured souls found some sense of peace as they passed, settling down. And it terrified him, made him believe that they were coming for _him_ to punish him for failing.  
  
He stumbled back, brittle bones crunching beneath his feet, the blade slipping from his blood soaked fingers to land in the flickering flames around him, the clatter sound it made drowned out in the screams. His mouth fell open in a silent scream of his own and he turned away as one of the beings got close - close enough for him to _feel_ the heat of it despite the fires of Hell surrounding him - tripping over his own feet.  
  
To its credit, the being didn’t falter. It reached out, grasping his left shoulder and pulled him up, somewhere towards the surface. The hand burned hotter than anything he had felt before, like a bolt of lightning had struck him head on, and for the first time in a long time his scream wasn’t silent, echoing around the burning, empty space of Hell.  
  
  
Dean’s eyes slide open slowly, registering the sun sitting in the sky in defiance of the clouds that drift lazily in to block it out, and sits up, his hand absently coming up to brush over his shoulder where the print had been, left behind when Castiel had pulled him from Hell.  
  
A mark that was long gone, faded from too many deaths and resurrections, but the memory remained embedded within the Angel’s grace, a light shining under his fingers as he stood up, feeling the weight of wings on his back, extending out to stretch the new muscles before taking flight in search of the angel-turned-human that rose him from perdition and pieced him back together again.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from tumblr.


End file.
